


Things that Break

by churkey



Series: Breaking and Mending [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Depression, Disability, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Stiles Stilinski is Derek Hale's Anchor, Stiles Stilinski is Pushed Out of the Pack, Suicidal Thoughts, Trigger Warning - Suicidal Ideation, soft derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22163617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/churkey/pseuds/churkey
Summary: Stiles spentyearstrying to prove he wasn't weak just because he was a breakable human.And then he broke.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Breaking and Mending [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1723897
Comments: 43
Kudos: 791





	Things that Break

Stiles groaned as he sat up in bed. He was in pain. Then again, he was almost always in pain. Today seemed like a five, so not too bad. He wouldn’t need one of the percocets sitting on his nightstand.

Small victories, he supposes.

He was, however, dizzy. Too dizzy. He glares at his walker, because of course today would be a walker day. Not like he’d planned on running a few errands. They’d have to wait, he supposed. Maybe he could do one because he really needed to go to the store.

He shuffled to the washroom. Knee grinding in pain the entire time.

Fuck. He _hated_ this.

But was also used to it.

Resigned.

Filling a glass of water at the sink, he reached for his morning meds. Two different kinds of anti-depressant and something for the nausea that always went hand-in-hand with his dizziness.

He takes a shower sitting on his little stool.

In the kitchen he considers his options. Did he think he could eat and not puke it all up? No. He shuddered as he opened a meal replacement shake and drank it. He hated this shit.

Maybe later he’d smoke a bowl or something. Thank you medical marijuana!

His life would suck more with out it.

He pushed his walker out into another dreary winter day in Portland.

Slowly made his way to the bus stop.

Waited.

At the store he did remember one useful feature to his walker. Could just dump his groceries in the basket.

He went around and bought what he needed.

Paid. Deals with the usual hassle of using EBT.

Goes home.

It’s 11:00 and he’s already fucking _exhausted_.

Still has to go to work, though.

He _hates_ working at Wal-Mart. But its one of the few places that’ll hire him (as a greeter) with his ‘special needs’. It allows him to work enough to satisfy welfare and social security but will never schedule him enough to disqualify him.

Four grueling hours at work later, he’s home again.

Lights a bowl and is finally able to eat something without feeling like he’ll puke. Eases some of his pain.

Spends the rest of the night trying to not to kill himself.

* * *

Stiles spent _years_ trying to prove he wasn’t weak just because he was a breakable human.

And then he broke.

* * *

Stiles is gritting his teeth in pain by the time he’s done climbing the bleachers to where, inexplicably, the pack is meeting after school.

His fucking knee has been progressively causing him more pain everyday for a month now.

The mood is strangely somber when he arrives. The pack suspiciously quiet.

Scott stands and shuffles his feet, “So. Stiles. We sort of decided that, after Donovan, maybe you should, um, like, take a break from the pack. From all this stuff. It’s turning you into someone I don’t recognize anymore.”

Stiles pauses midstep. Because, what the fuck?

But seriously. What. The. Fuck?

Unfortunately, his pause puts all of his weight on the leg with his aching knee. And it chooses this exact moment to give out.

He falls.

Hits his head and passes out.

* * *

In the hospital later, he’s told he has a concussion. No big deal. Not the first he’s had.

He’s also been told that they have to operate on his knee, since apparently it’s completely and utterly fucked up. They tell him that it was probably only a relatively minor injury to start with. But… he’d kept walking on it. Worse, he’d played lacrosse on it. In so doing, it’s possible there might be permanent damage.

He laughs bitterly. But at least this is the sort of injury he _can_ easily blame on lacrosse. Saves him a lot of awkward questions.

They operate. His knee is now being held together by some pins. Fantastic.

No one but his dad visits him in the hospital.

* * *

Turns out, despite knocking himself out in front of him, Scott keeps to his word and keeps Stiles out of pack business. Says it’s especially important now that he’s injured.

Stiles wants to spit in his face. Because he can _still_ research.

He’s ignoring the part where he can’t. Not really.

It’s been two weeks since the hospital.

He’s still getting dizzy, is sensitive to light, and has headaches far too frequently. It’s ruined his already shaky ability to focus.

The doctor says sometimes it can take a little while for post-concussion symptoms to fade. Especially if he’s had concussions in the past.

* * *

When Stiles starts physio the therapist warns him not to push too hard. He might re-injure himself.

He’s impatient and just wants to be able to walk normally again.

So he pushes.

He’s great at ignoring pain. Been doing it a lot in the past few years. Pushing through pain and injury has kept him and others alive.

He pushes too hard and they have to operate on his knee again.

* * *

After the surgery, it takes him longer and longer to get out of bed.

It feels pointless.

Why bother?

Stiles has always been the sort of person to push and push and push. He’s known for his stubbornness.

He’d always considered it a feature, not a flaw.

Turns out his knee doesn’t agree. Because this time? Yeah.

His knee is officially fucked.

Even with physio, he’ll have reduced motion and probably be in pain for the rest of his life.

Turns out that when you push and push and push on breakable things, they tend to break.

And not everything that is broken can be fixed.

* * *

Stiles hates the loss of independence the most. He can deal with pain.

(Too well, it seems.)

But reduced mobility in his right knee means he can’t drive anymore.

In a smallish town like Beacon Hills, this pretty much makes him dependent on his dad.

Who works _all the time_.

He could _maybe_ accept being kept out of pack business if they hadn’t also stopped being his friends.

Then again. Everyone knows he can’t stop being curious and sticking his nose into everything.

Give him an inch and he’ll take two miles.

So he can’t even call any of them for a ride.

It doesn’t matter that, these days, he’s just too fucking exhausted to be curious.

To really care at all.

* * *

It’s been two months and the dizziness, light sensitivity, and headaches from that concussion are still plaguing him.

He abuses his adderall in order to get _anything_ done for school.

Even so… his grades have dropped. Significantly.

It’s his last semester of school and he’ll graduate.

He’s already been accepted at Berkeley. So there’s that.

(He ignores the creeping fear that if this keeps up, he’s not going to be able to handle college.)

* * *

He, in fact, can’t handle college.

Part of it is the fact that his psychiatrist cut off his adderall. He’d been abusing it and his psychiatrist isn’t 100% convinced that his concentration problems are due to ADHD, since people can grow out of it. It’s also easy for the psych to use his post-concussion symptoms as a scapegoat.

Part of it is the fact that his psych also ended up diagnosing him with PTSD and depression. Which Stiles scoffs at.

(He hasn’t showered in three days and it took him an hour to get out of bed this morning. Which he did only to pee and then went back to bed. He is behind on all his schoolwork.)

Part of it is the fact that he’s in pain _all the time_ because of his knee. Even his legendary stubbornness fell away in the fact that he simply cannot walk without a mobility aid.

He feels like a failure because, for once, he’s hit a limit he can’t push past.

His body has failed him.

* * *

He’s been back at his dad’s for a few months now.

He barely leaves his bed. Or the house, really.

He has no friends.

His dad works a lot.

His psychiatrist said he was depressed. Recommended an anti-depressant.

But. Stiles doesn’t want to take pills.

He’s just so tired.

* * *

His dad basically forces him to take the pills since Stiles absolutely refuses to do therapy.

How can you do therapy when all your trauma relates to supernatural creatures?

It takes a while, but they eventually find a med combo that makes the world seem a little lighter. Helps him get out of bed everyday. Even calms down his ever-present anxiety.

Better living through chemistry, right?

* * *

Of course. This. _This_ is the point in which he really looses everything.

Because apparently Stiles getting pushed out of the pack didn’t mean they stopped including his dad, the sheriff.

And so he finds himself an orphan at 19.

He keeps taking his pills because it was one of the last things his dad asked him to do. So he will.

The other thing… that Stiles keep living. It’s harder than it should be.

He literally has nothing left.

Not his health. Not the pack. No friends. No parents.

Selling the house does little besides pay off outstanding hospital bills and allow him to move to Portland.

* * *

Some years later, he’s passed the three year threshold for when post-concussive syndrome kind of becomes a lifetime thing.

If, at this point, he hasn’t stopped feeling the impacts of that last concussion, he probably never will.

So. Yeah. Headaches, dizziness, and light sensitivity are his new lifetime buddies. Along with his bum knee.

All this means is that he finally capitulates and gets a walker for the days when the dizziness is too much and he has a high chance of falling (fucking knee).

He’s still alive though, so Stiles supposes he’s winning.

At least his dad would approve.

* * *

Amusingly, it really does seem like once you open the door to the supernatural, it never closes. Stiles sees signs of that other world all the time.

Still stands at the periphery, though.

In another life, Stiles might’ve inserted himself into Portland’s supernatural community. Allowed his curiousity to drive him into exploring.

Now?

It sounds like too much fucking work.

* * *

Stiles has a day off. His knee isn’t so bad. He’s not too dizzy.

He’s going to eat a pot cookie, then go to the park and listen to an audiobook. Spend some time outside.

(He can’t read for long stretches of time anymore without getting a fucking headache.)

He gets his shit together and heads to the park. It’s only a short walk, which is about all he can handle.

Finds his favourite bench under some trees and sits.

His eyes are closed and he lets himself drift along with the story.

“Stiles?”

His eyes pop open because that _voice_. He’d never forget that voice, despite the years since he’s heard it.

And, yeah, that’s fucking Derek standing in front of him. _Talking_ to him. Then again, he hadn’t been in town when Stiles had been kicked out. Probably not even a part of the pack himself.

“Heyyyyy, Derek. What’s up, dude?”

“Don’t call me dude.”

And fuck. The warm familiarity of it curls in his belly. Touches spaces long left empty and hollow.

“What are you doing here? Is anyone else with you?”

“Just enjoying a book and some fresh air. No one else here, ’cept some squirrels and birds.”

Derek is frowning. And it makes Stiles realize that he hadn’t been frowning. Huh. Strange.

“Are you high?”

“Yeah, dude. It’s medicinal. For, you know, the pain and dizziness.”

“You’re hurt?”

“No, no. Not hurt. But always in pain. You know how it is.”

Derek finally sits and he lays a hand on Stiles’ forearm. It makes Stiles shiver because it’s been a really long time since he’s had a friendly, gentle touch. And for it to be coming from Derek of all people is just…

Then. Then _all_ the pain fades away. It’s the first time in _years_ that he’s completely and utterly without pain.

And he’s fucking crying. Big, ugly fucking tears. Snot and everything. He’s boneless and basically melted into Derek’s side.

He’s forgotten a gentle touch. Forgotten what is was like to not be alone. Forgotten what is it’s like to feel no pain. And there’s so much relief that he’s none of those things right now.

But it also _hurts_ because he knows this won’t last. Derek will stop draining his pain, then he’ll leave.

(Like he always seems to do.)

Hurts to be reminded of this for a brief moment when he’d gotten used to his life. To living a half-life to keep a promise to a dying man.

Derek is holding him.

It’s the best and worst thing to happen in years.

* * *

He finally calms down. Gets his shit together. Regretfully pulls his arm out of Derek’s grasp. Feels his pain start to seep back.

“Um. Okay, uh, thanks for that? But also fuck you. I’m going to go home before I embarrass myself or you again. It’s been great seeing you, Derek.”

He grabs his cane and walks briskly away.

Well ‘briskly’ might be an exaggeration. He sort of hobbles away at a snail’s pace.

Maybe this time, if he’s the one to leave, it’ll hurt less.

(He can already tell that it doesn’t.)

* * *

Derek watches Stiles shuffle away. Using a cane and moving slowly.

Wonders at what the fuck happened in Beacon Hills that led to _this_.

In the years since he’d left, he’d only stopped by once. Scott had told him that Stiles left the pack and moved away.

He should’ve asked for more details. But he’d been a little hurt that Stiles hadn’t told him or left some kind of message behind.

(Tries to forget that he left first without word or a way to be reached.)

Because he’d enjoyed imagining Stiles living a normal life, going to a good college and being successful. That he’d gotten out of that shithole and made a life for himself. It’s what Derek had (mostly) done.

It’s also why he hadn’t tracked Stiles down. Not wanting to interrupt whatever peaceful life he’d built.

He hadn’t expected to find Stiles in a not-so-great neighbourhood in Portland. Sitting in the sun smelling of misery, loneliness, and pot.

Stiles didn’t look good. He was thin. He looked five years older than he should. Lines on his face from being in pain all the time.

Pretty much the exact opposite of the dream life Derek had imagined.

Fuck.

Even if he hadn’t made contact, he should’ve checked up on Stiles.

But the temptation to be near his anchor again would’ve been too much.

Now he felt his control slipping. Stiles is his anchor. And thinking about him living a happy, normal life had kept him anchored despite the distance.

It’d been a pretty lie.

* * *

Stiles supposes he can take some small comfort in the fact that some things don’t change.

Like Derek being a creeper.

Although… he’s either gotten worse at lurking or he isn’t really trying since it’s almost pathetically obvious that he’s been watching Stiles.

Stiles doesn’t know what to think about it. Doesn’t know why Derek has bothered to stick around or what he’s doing in Portland. Doesn’t know why Derek hasn’t approached him.

Sure, it’s been years. But they hadn’t parted on bad terms.

To be honest, Stiles would _love_ some company. He’s been so lonely since his dad died.

He doesn’t care if it makes him pathetic or needy.

His pride died a long time ago, along with his dignity.

If given half the chance, he’ll probably end up begging Derek to stay. Or take him away.

Walking away in the park had used up whatever strength he had left when it came to Derek. And that had been more about not wanting to get his hopes up.

But Derek hasn’t left (yet). He’s been watching so maybe he cares.

At least a little.

* * *

Stiles comes home one day to find Derek already in his place. Because of course he just walks into Stiles’ place. Dude has like zero understanding of boundaries.

Derek is cooking. _Cooking_.

It’s all so surreal and Stiles honestly can’t tell if he’s just tripping balls. Maybe he’d had too much pot earlier. Or something. In no universe does it make sense for Derek to be cooking in his kitchen.

“Food will be done in fifteen.”

Okay… so Derek is here, “You’re in my apartment. Cooking.”

“Yes. Good job noticing. Very observant.”

“You’re in my apartment, _cooking_ , and being snarky. How? _Why_?”

“You’re too skinny.”

“And you care?” That came out super bitter. But then Stiles is super bitter.

Derek plates the food and plunks it on the table. Sits down and looks at Stiles, “Yes. I care. I always have. Sit. Eat.”

Stiles sits. And eats.

(It’s really good.)

* * *

Derek keeps showing up and doing these things to take care of Stiles.

Stiles loves it.

He hates it.

It only takes a few weeks before he realizes that he needs to put a stop to it. The longer it goes the worse it’ll be when Derek leaves again.

(Like he always seems to.)

“Derek. I don’t know why you’re doing any of this, but you need to stop. I was, well, not fine but I was surviving. I was hanging on. Maybe by a thread but I _was_. I won’t be able to take it when you leave again.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You always have. Why would that change?”

“Stiles,” a weary sigh, "I left before because I wasn’t really needed anymore. Because I needed to try and heal, to find some peace. You’ve been my anchor for years now. The only thing that let me be away from you was the thought of you having a great life. Of you being happy. I thought you had Scott. The pack. Your dad.

"Now that I know that I was anchoring myself on a lie? I _can’t_ leave. I need to be here. Near you. Not only because it’ll stop me from going feral but because you need me. Wolves need a pack and you’re mine. You always have been, even when I couldn’t admit it to myself. Or you.

"I was stupid. I was insecure. I thought I didn’t deserve you. I thought you didn’t need me. After what I did, leaving and never contacting you, maybe I don’t deserve you.

“But I’m staying. I’ll never leave you again,” Derek was serious. Earnest. His eyes sincere. It was the most open and vulnerable he’d ever been with Stiles. And while Stiles wasn’t sure he could believe Derek, it was a start.

The Derek he’d known would’ve never been so open about his feelings. Leaving had obviously done him good. Stiles was glad. On his less bitter days, he remembers that this is why he’d never called Derek. Because he would’ve asked him to come back. If anyone deserved, _needed_ to get out of Beacon Hills it was Derek.

Stiles hadn’t wanted to bring him back. But Stiles wasn’t in Beacon Hills and having Derek here, when he needed him, didn’t feel so awful because of it. Because he wasn’t dragging him back to the place that had taken and taken and taken.

He wanted to tell Derek to leave. Leave before Stiles got attached (like it wasn’t already too late). Wanted to be strong and say he didn’t need anyone.

Stiles was broken and didn’t care about looking needy. Not anymore.

So he lurched forward, only to loose his balance and have his knee give out on him.

Derek caught him. Because of course he did.

Caught him and held him.

Held him close. Held him tight.

For the first time in years, Stiles felt a glimmer of hope. That maybe the future wouldn’t be a bleak nightmare of him only living to keep a promise to his dead father.

Derek was here. Solid and warm.

And maybe everything would be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> So... a lot of my motivation for writing comes from being annoyed by certain things that commonly happen. You'll note that Stiles becomes disabled by relatively minor injuries. He loses mobility because he ignores his injury and pushes too hard during recovery. I know too much realism serves no real purpose in an urban fantasy setting, but I still wanted to explore the way that smaller injuries can become Big Problems. Stiles becomes disabled not because of torture or some big battle but because he ignores his body.
> 
> RE: treating depression via medication. Beyond discussions about why the pharmaceutical industry is garbage, it does tend to bother me how anti-medication a lot of stories are. Medication is a totally valid way to treat mental illness. Not for everyone, sure, but valid. Same with the use of pain medications. I had to rage-quit a book I was listening to because the writer was treating the main character like some hero for not using pain meds for chronic pain. I would seriously give everything I have for decent pain management. 
> 
> This is also clearly not disability-porn or inspiration. Sad reality is that being disabled can totally strip your life of any dignity or pride. Also that disabilities can and do place hard limits on what you can do. It fucking sucks but you have to live with it. 
> 
> Last, in the first section I mention some American social assistance stuff. I'm not American and have no real idea about how it all works. From my disabled American friends all I really know is that getting on social assistance is hard and you're usually expected to work. Also that being disabled in America sucks. 
> 
> I swear this note is longer than the fic at this point. Sorry.


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